


Mage Hunters

by Herbrarian



Series: New Orders [16]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Late Night Conversations, Nightmares, Past Violence, Skyhold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 09:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12056430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herbrarian/pseuds/Herbrarian
Summary: Previously: Even with the security of the Keep around her, the nightmares never quite leave.





	Mage Hunters

She wakes, breath sticking to her lungs. Sweat pours down her chest, making her belly slick. Her legs are surrounded by the covers and she kicks and claws at them until they lie in a tangled heap on the bed.

She remembers running.

She’s never been hunted, has only been chained a few times in her life, but still she fears. In the Circle the older Enchanters who were tasked with teaching the entry classes about Circle life took great pride in terrorizing their young charges.

She apprenticed with one of the best spirit handlers in Ostwick’s history. Dorothea’s own gifts were defense, not healing, in spirit. But being allowed to help in her workshop hours, light duty at best, was considered a suitable treat for the little noble girl. As the most experienced healer, the Enchanter operated a sort of clinic. It was pleasant enough work most days.

She crosses to the chair and picks up her robe, securing it around her waist. The walls feel tight and her skin itches. She steps down the stairs and moves away from her room.

Dorothea had seen more than one newly arrived resident of the Tower, only physically bound, but catatonic nonetheless, numbed into submission with smites, silences, and drains. As she had worked, Enchanter Brunhile explained that, for some mages, their relation to the Fade is so woven into who they are that such brutal severance breaks something inside of them. Dorothea had watched the Enchanter minister numerous times to those who had been broken; on more than one occasion she had seen her fail, the charge eventually made tranquil.

She remembers running in the dream.

She reaches the Great Hall. The feeling of eyes watching her from the dark. The Hall is too big and open; she is vulnerable in the odd quiet. She contemplates the forge, but knows she would be trapped; she thinks of the library under the stairs, but knows no one would hear her if she needed help. Her feet move quickly down the nave, she doesn't spare a glance upward to see if Mme. de Fer is awake or no; probably not as Varric is gone, too, which means the hour is late as he has gone to the tavern, come back, and then left again to go to his bed. At the threshold of the doors the moon is weak.

She remembers the flash of lighting on shields in the dream, getting ready to run, but the nauseating sense of lyrium freezing in her veins...and the spell evaporates.

She couldn't run.

She flees now, though, down the stairs to the courtyards. Bile rises in her throat and she swallows heavily. Dorothea hesitates near the sparring ring, desolate in the poor light, moves on to the lower courtyard. It rained earlier in the evening. She sidesteps puddles that reflect the light from the armory near the gate. The night watch is out in force. Her heart leaps in her chest, begins to hammer a rhythm that is painful in her ears. There are so many of them, and she freezes near the bushes, willing no one to see her. There are weapons, shields, a man's voice rings out, calling an order.

She knows she shouldn't panic: she is the Inquisitor, for Andraste's sake, but the terror of the nightmare is too firmly in her head.

She needs to run.

So she turns and hugs the wall, moving quickly away. She darts behind the merchant's tents, canvas ties and padlocked boards closing them up for the night. She misjudges the distance, steps into the canvas of a tent, pulls down an awning. The sound carries in the courtyard and she thinks to run to the stables, hide with the horses.

A shadow looms and her heart beats wildly. Her panic locks her knees as she crouches, peeking between the stalls. She hears armor, carefully approaching, but too late she realizes it does not come from the courtyard, but next to her.

A gloved hand grabs her arm and pulls her up sharply. Instinctively, she throws out a mind blast, and shields her face with her arms, waiting to be dropped so she can run.

The hand tenses, but it doesn't release her and she feels the grunt of pain in the man that holds her and then the startled, horrifying feeling of a purge. She scrambles, kicking and hissing like a cat dropped in a barrel of water, and before she can get clear of him, her head contacts something solid--stone perhaps, maybe a rock--and as she falls into unconsciousness she hears her name and a worried sound.

 

* * *

  
She wakes later, she doesn't think it has been too long. At first, she starts to fight to sit, to scramble away, but then she focuses. Her eyes narrow in on golden eyes swimming in a concerned expression.

"Dorothea?" he asks softly, concern in the beats of her name.

They are in the kitchen. He explains it is the first warm place he could think to get her to unobserved. She listens as he recounts hearing a noise while in an early morning patrol, thinking he interrupted a thief, shock and disbelief that it was her. He apologizes for the purge, but she waves him off with a laugh, it is the least that she deserves, she says, for attacking him, she says; it was not that strong, she doesn't say.

He delicately refrains from asking what she was doing. But it is fiercely important he knows, so she tells him the gist of the nightmare, scant details. His eyes grow heavy and weary with the burden of the telling. They fall silent and he stares into the fire. She holds the tumbler of water he has pressed into her hands, and sneaks glances at him between sips. He apologizes. It confuses her, at first, until she realizes he is apologizing for The Circles, for the Order, for all of it.

It surprises her. Without forethought she asks, "What would you imagine in stead?" for after Redcliffe, she has no illusions, no naïveté about what it is to keep the world safe. She does not expect the answer to trip off of his lips, and she listens as he lays out ideas for magic in clinics, in building, raising the standard of living for those who are most vulnerable, and escorts that protect mages from demons, yes, but also from ignorant people. They sit, make tea, raid the apples and the cheese larder, and talk through the burning of an oak log on the fire.

It is a shock when the head baker comes in to proof yeast. The poor man looks terrified at what has taken up residence in his kitchen and he prepares to vacate immediately. Dorothea laughs, stops him with a gentle hand to his arm, suggests she might be removed from office if she were to halt the delivery of his delicious bread. The baker smiles shyly, smoothing his apron in obvious pride and they take their leave. They head out the side door to the courtyard, the way he brought her in. The sky is purpling and the air is crisp after the warm fug of the kitchen.

They stroll slowly, neither of them anxious to end this. She thanks him for tea and conversation, he thanks her for a good mind blast, and they laugh, as if it is easy, as if it is funny. He touches her elbow, and leans down to graze a kiss on her cheek. His stubble tickles the skin and his nose nudges lightly toward her ear. "Good night, Dorothea," he breathes, although it is closer to dawn, and she returns his wish with her own, "Rest well," and she turns to go, noticing the barest hesitation on his part to release her elbow.

She feels the spot burn all the way up the stairs to her room, radiating a warmth to her belly, burning away the rest of the nightmare.


End file.
